


Nothing Good Happens After 2 AM (except for you)

by StormDancer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (of course there's pining), (when do i not write pining?), Alternate Universe - College/University, Drunk Zayn, M/M, Pining, mainly fluff though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You had to finish that paper,” Zayn says, simply, and Harry’s struck by a sudden, overwhelming rush of love for this beautiful, lovely boy, who’d sit by himself miserable and drunk rather than break Harry’s concentration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Good Happens After 2 AM (except for you)

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, the boys belong to themselves! I just wanted to write some drunk!Zayn for a change. And pining Harry, because I always want pining Harry. Warning, though: no sex. None. Sorry, consent issues, I can't. But enjoy the fluff anyway!

It’s 3 in the morning when Harry finally finishes his paper. It would have been two, but then he had had to take a Beyonce break, and a quick troll through twitter, and of course he had been on facebook and then he had started to chat with his mum for a while because she was worried when she saw that he was home on a Friday night. But he manages to finish by three, and closes his computer with a triumphant sigh and a literal pat on the back. It might be shit, probably is, but it’s done. 

And he’s been sitting in his desk chair for close to five hours, ever since he saw the other boys off to their parties. So he shoves back from his desk, stretches in the scant space of his dorm room, then stumbles out of his room towards the bathroom he and Niall share with Zayn, Liam, and Louis across the entranceway. All he wants is a glass of water, maybe to piss, and then to brush his teeth and crash. If he goes to bed now, he can probably wake up in time to meet Liam for brunch. Maybe Louis, if he got back in early enough. Niall’ll probably eat with whichever girl he pulled, because he’s classy like that, and Harry knows better than to hope to get Zayn out of bed before 2 on a weekend. 

So he’s not really paying attention when he pushes open the door, or certainly not enough that he manages not to trip over the legs stretched across the tiles from inside the open bathroom stall 

“Holy fucking shit!” he spits, as he manages to catch himself on the edge of the counter. Then, when he notices what he tripped over, “Shit, Zayn!” 

Zayn blinks up at him from the bathroom floor. He’s got on jeans and a tight red t-shirt, like he had when he went out hours ago, but then his hair had been slicked up into a quiff and he had looked so sharp and hot that Harry had had to catch his breath and then focus very hard on his paper for a while to calm himself down. It was one of the trials of being friends and living near such an attractive person, Harry had discovered—the wanting. But now Zayn’s hair has fallen out of his quiff, so it’s soft around his face, and his eyelashes are clumped together. It shouldn’t be attractive. Maybe for most people, it wouldn’t be. But Harry’s long past the point of figuring out why every little thing Zayn does is attractive. Why he wants him even when Zayn’s lying on the bathroom floor, one arm resting on the toilet seat, his head tipped back against the stall. 

“Hey, Haz,” he mumbles. 

It comes out almost as slow as Harry usually talks, which isn’t usual. Usually, drunk Zayn is chatty and upbeat, helping Louis plan crazy things (once, after a night out, Harry had tried to go into their suite only to find all their furniture barricading the door. They had found it hysterical, once they woke up. Liam had been less amused.) or chatting up fit girls or talking enthusiastically about some philosophical thing that the other boys roll their eyes at but that Harry loves to listen to. He loves to watch Zayn’s lips move around big words as he says things that Harry doesn’t always understand but that he’s sure is brilliant. Not this, slow and sad, his eyes huge in his pale face. 

“You okay?” Harry asks, immediately, dropping down to crouch next to Zayn. He can smell the alcohol from here. 

Zayn nods. “Yeah, just—fuck,” in an instant he’s sitting up, grabbing onto the toilet seat and bracing himself there as he hangs his head into the bowl. Harry jolts back instinctively, but as soon as he realizes what’s happening he puts a hand onto Zayn’s back, stroking it as Zayn dry heaves into the toilet. 

Eventually, Zayn sits back, coughing a little. “Fuck,” he says again, and runs a hand back through his hair. 

“Are you okay?” Harry asks again. He’s not—this isn’t usually his job, usually he’s the one puking his guts out. But he thinks about what makes him feel better, so he gets up again to grab a glass of water from the sink, brings it back to Zayn. 

“Just really fucking drunk, fuck.” Zayn takes the glass, but he looks at it like he’s forgotten what to do with it. Gently, Harry takes his hand and brings it, and the cup, to his mouth, so Zayn takes a sip. “Thanks. Sorry.”

“’course.” Harry takes the glass back and sets it on the floor, within easy reach but far enough away that he probably won’t manage to knock it over by accident. Then, because it hurts a little to see Zayn sprawled alone on the tiles, “Why didn’t you get someone to help?” 

Zayn shrugs. “Lou went to El’s, Liam’s passed out, think he was drunker than me, and Niall went home with some Barbara girl.”

“And me?” Harry asks. Always, always the question with Zayn. 

He blinks again, the fluorescent lights reflecting in his eyes like stars. “You had to finish that paper,” he says, simply, and Harry’s struck by a sudden, overwhelming rush of love for this beautiful, lovely boy, who’d sit by himself miserable and drunk rather than break Harry’s concentration. It’s more than that, Harry knows; it’s a worrying and irritating habit of trying not to make waves, to do things on his own when any of them would be willing to help; it’s the modesty that sometimes turns into self-effacement where he puts his needs last. But it’s also just Zayn. 

Harry reaches out to run his fingers through Zayn’s hair. He’s not usually allowed, only Louis really gets to touch Zayn’s hair, but this time Zayn just tips his head back and sighs into it. “You’re more important,” Harry says, softly. “You’re the most important.” 

Zayn just shakes his head. “Did you finish?”

“Yeah, but—” he cuts off when Zayn lurches forward again. This time he does puke, which Harry looks away from because it’s gross, but he keeps his hand on Zayn’s back, rubbing gently and muttering nonsense things that always make him feel better when he’s drunk too much. 

Finally, after a few weak coughs, Zayn sits back again. It means there’s no more room for Harry’s hand, so instead he rips off some toilet paper to hand to Zayn, then gives him the water. This time, Zayn does seem to remember how to drink, then to rinse his mouth. Harry thinks it says something about how far gone he is for Zayn that even now he thinks Zayn’s beautiful. 

“Better?” he asks. Because he thinks he still can, he reaches out and brushes Zayn’s sweaty hair off of his forehead. His skin is hot beneath Harry’s fingers, and it’s not like it’s the most he’s ever touched Zayn, but it feels…different, somehow. If Harry were Zayn, he’d know the word for the difference, but he’s him, so all he knows is it feels like he’s touching fire. 

Zayn nods. “Think so. ‘s like the third time, hope it’s all out now.”

“Third—” Harry cuts himself off, because he doesn’t want to argue, especially not when he’s not going to win, with Zayn looking soft and vulnerable and clearly still really drunk. “C’mon, Zaynie, lets get you to bed.”

“Don’t call me that,” Zayn mutters, but he lets Harry haul him to his feet anyway. Once he’s upright, he’s still swaying, so clearly Harry’s only choice is to wrap himself behind Zayn and walk him towards the sink by nudging their feet forward together. Harry’s the right height that he can twine his arms around Zayn’s waist and still see over his shoulder, so he does that, whispers approving sounds as Zayn brushes his teeth, because he’ll feel better about that in the morning. Then they shuffle to Zayn’s room, still attached (and maybe Harry spreads his hands over Zayn’s stomach because he can, counts each rib over the t-shirt. And maybe he thinks, imagines, pretends, that Zayn shivers when he does). 

Harry only lets go of Zayn when they get to his room, and only enough that he can get in front of him. He doesn’t bother to turn on the light—he can navigate all the boys’ rooms in the dark, but Zayn’s the most, after years of having to wake him up to get to class or exams or dinner. He’s got his curtains open anyway, and the light shines in enough that Zayn’s face is lit with moonlight and streetlights. 

Zayn sways when Harry lets go, but stays upright. “Gonna take me to bed, Styles?” he giggles. Harry sticks his tongue out back. He’s sounding more like normal drunk Zayn, and it’s not like they haven’t been play-flirting since they met. Not like Harry hasn’t learned how not to care that it’s only play on one side. Having a crush on a straight guy isn’t the end of the world, after all. 

“It’s the only thing I ever wanted, Malik,” he retorts. “Pants off, okay? It’ll be more comfortable.” 

Zayn pauses, for a second. Harry is a good friend. Harry will be a good friend if nothing else, so he moves forward to help—and gets pushed away, a little rougher than Zayn probably intended. “I can do it myself.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’m not—I can take my fucking pants off, I’m not helpless.” To demonstrate, Zayn undoes his belt and slides it off, slowly. Harry can feel his eyes widen, his mouth go dry, and he clenches his fists at his side. 

“Know you’re not,” Harry gets out, and if his voice is raspier than usual, well, the boy he’s been half in love with and all the way in lust with for over a year is basically stripping in front of him, he thinks he’s allowed. “Doesn’t mean I can’t help.”

Zayn heaves an overdramatic sigh as his long fingers fumble over the button of his jeans. Harry is most certainly not looking there. At all. Even a little. “I know. You take care of me, you know? My rock.” Distracted from undressing, he slings an arm over Harry’s shoulder, nuzzles into his neck. “Always making sure I’m okay.” 

Harry gulps. Zayn’s lips are warm against his skin, because he probably doesn’t know how close he’s gotten, and his limbs are warm as his arm wraps around Harry’s shoulders. “Thought that was Liam,” he jokes, “He’s the responsible one.” 

Zayn shakes his head. “Sometimes you look at me.”

“Lots of people look at you.” 

“Not like you do. You look at me like—or, like, sometimes you do, not always, but sometimes you look at me like…I dunno.” He lets go of Harry, and lets himself fall backwards onto the bed so he’s sitting down. He’s apparently forgotten the whole getting undressed thing, which Harry thinks overall is probably actually a good idea. It was a silly thing to do anyway. Zayn should always wear a lot of clothes around Harry. Enough that Harry can pretend he’s not all long and lean underneath them, so all Harry would have to contend with is that face, those eyelashes blinking up at him, a little confused and a little bleary and a lot pretty. “It’s—how do you look at me?”

“Like I want you,” Harry says. He’s pretty sure that much is an open secret. “Everyone who’s attracted to boys wants you, Zed. It’s just, like, a fact. You’re impossibly hot.”

“Nah, I know that.” Zayn tilts his chin up to look at Harry. In the weird light, he looks unearthly, all cheekbones and eyelashes and eyes like those anime things Liam sometimes watches. Harry can almost pretend that his eyes aren’t cloudy with alcohol, that he’s only saying this because he’s drunk and drunk Zayn has always been affectionate and blunt and thoughtful. “That’s not how you look at me, though. You look at me like I’m good.”

“You are good.” You’re the best, Harry wants to say. He always wants to say it, because he thinks Zayn forgets that sometimes. 

“I’m not, though. I was just throwing up in a toilet for half an hour, and you’re there sometimes and I know it’s not on, and there was that thing with—” and Harry can’t stand it anymore, how Zayn does this, how he takes everything on him, how he shoulders all the blame for the world and never leaves any for the rest of them, any for anyone else to take care of him. So he does the only thing he can think of to shut him up, and leans down and kisses him. 

Harry kisses Zayn like he’s wanted to for years, like he’s not done because Zayn’s straight—at least, he’s never shown any sort of interest in a guy in the two years Harry’s known him, and he’s never said anything to the contrary—and not interested and Harry won’t go there. But tonight Zayn is drunk and wrung out and still beautiful, and Harry can’t stand it anymore, just kisses him soft and sweet and with all the want and love he’s had for so long. He tastes like alcohol and smoke and mint, and it should be gross because Harry knows he was just puking minutes ago, but it’s Zayn, so it’s not. 

“Harry?” Zayn says, as Harry pulls back. His eyes are unfairly huge. 

“You really are,” Harry replies, softly. “You’re wonderful, Zayn. Even when you’re puking.” 

Zayn grins at that, his big, wide-open grin that comes so much easier when he’s drunk and forgotten how much he cares about how people see him. “You’re wonderful too,” he tells Harry, very earnestly, and flops backwards so he’s more lying down than anything. “Taking care of me even though I’m drunk and dying. Did you finish your paper?”

“Told you I did, already.” But it reminds Harry just how drunk Zayn is, that he’s browning out at least a little. This isn’t—it’s not the time to say anything. It’s never going to be the time to say anything, because there’s only so pathetic he’ll be, and maybe Zayn won’t remember any of this in the morning anyway. “Now it’s bedtime for drunk Zaynies! Let’s get your jeans off.” 

“Can do it myself,” Zayn mutters, but he’s clearly already half-asleep, his eyes closed, his eyelashes soft and dark over his cheekbones. Harry bites his lip very, very hard as he peels Zayn’s jeans off, resolutely not closing his eyes as he reveals inch after inch of skinny thighs and muscled calves. He has to see what he’s doing, after all. It’s not like he’s saving this for wank fodder later. Or if he is, then he’s allowed to, because he was so good tonight even if he did kiss Zayn, and he deserves something pretty to jerk off to later. 

Finally, after what seems like hours, he’s got Zayn just down to his boxers, and then dragged up the bed and under the blankets. Zayn’s like a giant cat when he’s like this, a sleepy deadweight for all his pliancy, and Harry’s never been more thankful for his workout regime then when he literally has to pull Zayn up to the pillows. But at last he’s situated, and there’s a glass of water by his bed and some plastic bags just in case.

“Night, Zayn,” Harry murmurs. Because he can, because Zayn’s not going to remember, because it’s four in the morning and Harry can still see the way Zayn had looked at him just before he kissed him, wide-eyed and open and trusting, Harry leans down and drops a kiss on Zayn’s forehead, smoothing away the hair. 

He thinks Zayn’s asleep, but as he pulls away, a hand comes up to wrap loosely around his wrist. “Stay?” Zayn asks, his voice heavy with sleep. 

“What?”

“Stay here tonight?” 

Harry bites his lip. He shouldn’t. It’ll only hurt more. “Zayn…”

“Please?” Zayn’s eyes flutter open, and that’s just unfair. “You make everything feel better.”

And what’s Harry supposed to say to that? So he strips off his t-shirt and shucks his jeans off, then climbs into bed next to Zayn. Zayn immediately curls into his side, so Harry has no choice but to wrap around his back, his hand resting on Zayn’s hip. 

“Night, Harry.”

“Night, Zayn,” Harry says again, firmly, and at least partly to himself, because his hand seems to be making circles against Zayn’s skin with no input from his brain. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

\---

Harry wakes up with the certainty that someone is watching him. Then he opens his eyes—and closes them immediately, because he’s not nearly awake enough to deal with Zayn close enough to count his eyelashes, to see the little freckle in one eye, with those lips plump and kissable from sleep. 

Then he opens them again, because he’s too tired not to be curious. Sometimes when they slept, they must have rearranged themselves, because they’re facing each other on the pillow now, their foreheads almost touching, their feet tangled together. Zayn’s eyes are open and he’s looking at Harry like he’s a little confused, a little fond, and a lot tired. 

“You’re awake,” Harry says, quietly, into the soft morning light that’s filtering across them despite Zayn’s best attempts at making his room into a cave.

Zayn blinks, like he’s not sure of the answer to that. “Yeah,” he says, slowly. “You kissed me last night.”

Harry is not awake enough to do this, but, “Yeah,” he agrees. 

Zayn wets his lower lip. “You told me I was wonderful.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees again. He had kind of been hoping Zayn would forget that. Or at least put it down to some drunken fever dream. Or not confront him about it when he’s too tired to charm his way out of it. 

But Zayn smiles, soft and sweet, and leans forward. Harry doesn’t understand, can’t compute, not even when Zayn’s pressing his lips against Harry’s, feather light but with clear intent, not until Zayn’s pulled away already. “Thanks, babe,” Zayn says, soft as his kiss. 

It’s—Harry can’t—“Zayn?”

“Sleep now, talk later,” Zayn murmurs, and closes his eyes. 

“Zayn, you’re straight.” 

Zayn opens his eyes. His usual morning look is coming back, the grumpy, affronted look he always gets when he’s awake before noon. “Not entirely,” he says, “Talk later.” Then he tucks his head into Harry’s shoulder, and apparently goes right back to sleep. 

Harry considers pinching himself to see if he’s dreaming, because he has a bedful of early-morning Zayn cuddling against him, who isn’t entirely straight, and he’s sure he’s dreamed of waking up to this before. 

But if this is a dream, he’d rather not wake up from it. So he drops his head into Zayn’s hair, runs a hand down his side, and falls back asleep with the promise of ‘later’ on his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Come say hi on [ tumblr!](http://ridiculouslittleidiots.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
